


On Murder and Maggots

by satalderihannsu



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Comedy, Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Gen, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satalderihannsu/pseuds/satalderihannsu
Summary: In a climate of constant cruelty and violence, one determines which Hell is slightly better than another. Aka, Crowley doesn't like Beelzebub, but doesn't want them dead.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	On Murder and Maggots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElderWhizzerBrown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElderWhizzerBrown/gifts).



> Thank you to my giftee for their patience! This was a gift fill for the Tumblr Good Omens holiday exchange. I couldn't find your AO3, but happy holidays, @imhungryandaproblem!!

There's a certain paranoia native to demons of Hell just by nature. More than anyone else, they are acquainted with betrayal. Thus, at any moment, someone in Hell was gunning for someone else.

It’s not as though there was something to be specifically gained. Rather, it was just the perpetual prevention of the Next Backstab. Just like any other unremarkable Tuesday.

This environment was part of the reason Crowley continuously looked over his shoulder. Except, of course when around the angel. He could relax then. If any of his people found him, he was just corrupting an angel. Mind, Aziraphale had fits of strong nerves when Crowley came to visit. But that made sense, of course. Crowley admitted that he rather liked the discomfort that, just once in a while, the angel had to suffer. Made them feel a little more equal.

The thing is, Hell's squabbles frequently caused distress for Crowley regardless of whether it was in fact Crowley for whom they were gunning. For instance, when the fifth archduke was obliterated in a row, the sixth was more… hands on with discipline. At one point, Crowley had been sucked straight into his radio to be whipped for one month solid until the sadist thought he would know what pain tasted like. Luckily, that duke was murdered just a little while later.

However, for the last few millennia, the pecking order above Crowley had been rather stable and in a configuration that wasn't too terrible. On a sliding scale of terrible, that is. Hastur now outranked Crowley, so he didn't particularly worry about much from him in terms of outright murder. Abuse, sure. But not murder. And working under Beelzebub was at least less whipping-focused. In short, this arrangement of Powers That Be was just fine, thank you.

It was some time in the mid-19th century that Crowley started hearing mumbling of a new usurpation effort.

***

Beelzebub, Archduke of Hell, King of the Pile of All Dung, Lord of the Flyers, and Bewitcher of Young Nuns, knew deeply that there were stirrings in the muck. They had spies everywhere, of course. Flies. Walls. You get the picture. Yet there were some plots too dastardly for even their coverage.

So the day that Anthony Crowley came hurtling out of almost nowhere wielding two glistening silver machetes and flying toward their head was too much. They admitted, they could be surprised. Luckily, their cloud of ever-present eyes pulled them up and away from this rudimentary assassination attempt.

"What. The. _Fuck._ You pissant demon?" Beelzebub snarled and caught Crowley's throat with a cloud of buzzing minions. "I did not realize that you wanted your every viscera removed slowly through your ears and nose?"

"Wait wait wait!" cried Crowley thickly. Flies were already crawling into his nose. He snuffed pathetically. "It wasn't me!"

"How stupid do you think I am, exactly?"

"No, really, look!" Crowley pointed back into the darker edges of the Archduke's chambers. Pooling out from under a large, moldy drapery was the blackened, acidic ichor of a lesser demon's blood. The head and arm of one of the lesser Presidents of Hell was there. Crowley wiggled against the fist of flies and pointed up. "And there!"

"Ah," said Beelzebub. Where Crowley pointed was the rest of the dead President.

"You see, I found out that he'd planned to throw these silver axes into your chest--"

"Don't care," said Beelzebub before unceremoniously dropping Crowley back into the floor, distressingly near the black blood. "Clear up this mess while I'm out writing this up. If I don't see it or you when I'm back, I'll not seek you out later to consume."

Crowley blanched. "How long do you think it'll be before you're back?"

"Not. Long."

***

The hellhounds, pride and joy of their Master's creations, had to be kept carefully locked behind impenetrable walls. There weren't many hellhounds since the cost of keeping their endlessly slavering jaws full of meat proved challenging when not plague times. They were guarded by Satan's own elite guards.

So when Beelzebub was being carried around Hell on a litter for a morale parade, and the last turn before returning to the dingy palaces brought them face to fang with a hellhound, it came as some surprise. Even more surprising was the fact that the hellhound was being ridden. _Ridden like a pony._ Most surprising of all? The rider scrabbling on the back of the great beast (not to be confused with The Great Beast, of course) was none other than the demon Crowley.

The hellhound lunged instantly for the parade. Imps and demons scattered and unidentified legs kicked pitifully from between the glistening teeth of the beast.

"Whoa, boy! You are a boy, aren't you? Whoa regardless!" He reached around to grab the now-stilled imp legs and used them as a bit and bridle. He wrestled for a minute, until one of the legs snapped and the hellhound gulped the limbs down. "Damnation!" shrieked Crowley, pulling back his hand in the nick of time.

Crowley's tomfoolery gave Beelzebub's (remaining) guards just enough time to make a united effort to subjugate the _canis major pain,_ and _demonicus serpentes._ The two were separated as the hellhound was rapidly transported to safer enclaves. Meanwhile, two guards held sharp and pointy tridents against Crowley's throat. Beelzebub strode slowly, menacingly toward the erstwhile dog cavalry.

"So."

Crowley held up his hands placatingly even as he stretched his toes to avoid six new scars. "I know what this looks like."

Beelzebub spoke to the guards. "I want his head in the wettest corner of my office."

"No, you see! It was Belphegor! He was mad about you getting credit for the golgotha last decade. Thinks he should be the only king of shit, see."

"The only problem with being king of shit is being king of you," said Beelzebub.

Crowley hissed piteously. "Pleasse, I can prove it!"

And he did. It had been a complex heist, and the evidence was incontrovertible. Beelzebub didn't thank Crowley, but he did notice that he received fewer interruptions over the next few years. Crowley almost got to enjoy himself for a while.

***

On Earth it was 1919, and Hell was receiving a sudden influx not seen in several hundred years. "Flu," apparently. Beelzebub liked that. It reminded them of "fly" and they liked the efficiency of Pestilence's work.

But with so many at once, processing was getting a little backed up. The confused damned sometimes wandered looking for a bathroom or sunlight before they really understood the gravity of their situation. It was getting obnoxious. The number of times that Beelzebub had been interrupted by mere mid-grade bribed politicians looking for a manager alone!

Thus, when Beelzebub's door opened, they just said, "You'll be seen to when your number's called!" and didn't look up. But the door didn't close again.

"I'll be seen right now, until you vanish into nothingness!"

Beelzebub looked up in shock. Who DARED--?

Standing in the door was an imp with an idiotic grin and a newly dead corrupt priest. But the priest looked at the imp and said, "That person?"

"Yes, _EXORCISE THEM_!!"

The recently dead corrupt priest, still technically ordained, began to chant. And, curses of curses, he somehow had made it down with rosary, cross, _and_ water to bless.

"Shit!"

From outside there suddenly came a ridiculous racket, like some kind of tunnel-drilling mechanism hurtling through the underbelly of Hell. The imp faltered and looked. It had almost enough time for a full-throated scream before a horror of scales and maggot and slime crashed into the room, obliterating the door and in one great gulp, swallowed imp and damned soul in one awful, lamphrey-like razor sharp event.

Liquids squelched unpleasantly. That, and the unmistakable remains of door and unhelpful signage were the only remaining evidence that something else had happened.

"Crowley. You're dripping on my floor."

Space reshaped itself and Crowley returned to his preferred assemblage of limbs and skin. Sheepishly: "Yesss, Your Nobleness?"

"What was all that drama just now?"

Crowley tried to lean against a doorway that no longer existed. "Uh. Overheard a thing. And ah, creatively solved an issue before it was an issue?" He caught himself before looking too uncool.

Beelzebub sighed. "I wish I paid you--"

"Uh, thanks?"

Beelzebub interrupted. "So I could take this out of your pay."

"Right." Crowley patted the shattered wall. "I'll just see myself out then?"

"Try to avoid coming back any time soon," answered Beelzebub.

Once Crowley was far enough down the tube he'd created of wrecked office space and terrified Damned that Beelzebub couldn't see him, they pulled out the most official sort of letterhead and began to write:

"In regards to your inquiry about demons most suited to fulfilling the task of delivering the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness, I have a suggestion…"  
  



End file.
